


this room is wrong

by DarkHeartInTheSky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel & Sam Winchester Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nearly Human Castiel (Supernatural), POV Sam Winchester, Post-Episode: s15e03 The Rupture, Sam Is Fed Up With Their Shit, The Destiel Breakup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23652460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: After Dean and Castiel fight, Castiel disappears into the world, and Dean disappears into the bottle. Their relationship is ruptured like never before. Now, it's up to Sam to get them to fix it. But Cas won't come home, and Dean won't leave the bunker.He's pretty sure he'd rather fight Lucifer again.
Relationships: Castiel & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 52
Kudos: 284





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my good friend, [bunni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kradarua/pseuds/kradarua) for betaing chapter one! I appreciate you so much, go check out her works too!
> 
> Fic title inspired by [The Chain by Ingrid Michaelson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b-8LctWclW4).
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

-Don't run away.

-I’m not running away. I’m already gone.

[ **Beautiful Darkness** ](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/10937544)

It takes Sam six months to find him.

In hindsight, he realizes it’s obvious where Cas would go. But at the time, he and Dean had both been so brain-fogged, so tired, so exhausted with their grief and hurt and worry, they figured Cas had disappeared off the face of the Earth like he once could, traveling between Heaven and Earth and Space in the time it took them to inhale. 

Cas definitely tried. The GPS on his phone stopped receiving signals just a few minutes after he walked out of the bunker (Dean later found the ruined remains of the cell phone on the main road—apparently run over by a car) and a few hours after Cas left, all the money from his bank card had been withdrawn; a modest eight hundred bucks. Then all activity stopped.

Six months of nothing. Cas has gone radio silent on them before—habitually, even—but never like this. Never because of a fight with Dean of that magnitude. Hours later, when Sam inquired about Cas, Dean was ashamed. Unable to even look Sam in the eyes, he muttered to his feet, drunk, “He’s gone.”

Mom. Jack. Rowena. Cas. All gone within just days of each other. Blow after blow after blow after blow—they kept coming, no reprieve, no mercy. It was unbearable. They put APBs out with the other hunters, asked Jody and Claire if Cas had called, tracked traffic cams, and the John Doe lists of city morgues—and  _ nothing _ .

Until, Sam realized, yesterday at two in the morning, they’d been looking in places they thought Cas would go to hide.

But Cas wasn’t hiding. He wasn’t an animal, skittering away from a predator, burrowing underground, or hiding away in the treetops. He wasn’t going to go off on some grand, unfamiliar adventure. He was going to a place he knew. Where he was at least somewhat comfortable. Where he felt wanted. 

Sam watches awkwardly from the pumps through the window of the Gas N Sip. Cas is stocking shelves—packs of gum and candy and energy drinks. He works quietly and efficiently, stopping the task sometimes to help a customer, who always leaves with a kind smile, sometimes a handshake.  _ Thank you _ , Sam reads their lips. Even from the window, he can see the last few months have not been without effect. Cas looks thinner. Sadness is etched into his face, but he greets each customer with a smile, gives a thumbs up at the desperate fools buying lottery tickets.

Sam waits outside for a long time, feet glued to the pavement. Now that he’s found Cas, he doesn’t know what to do. Call Dean? Say what? Dean doesn’t even know Sam went looking for Cas. He shuts down every time Cas is brought up, shrinking into his shell, and ends up locking himself in his room with dry cereal and booze, sometimes for days at a time. Does Sam just walk in there and talk? Would Cas even let him? He’s made it clear he doesn’t want to talk to either of them. Does. . . does Sam just leave? Go away, like nothing happened? Content himself with the fact that Cas is alive and looks okay?

In the end, Sam does nothing but stand there until the decision is made for him. Cas sees him. Tenses up. His jaw sets and his teeth clench together. Cas helps the customer he’s with and then comes around the corner, meeting Sam outside.

“Hey,” Sam says awkwardly. It’s nearing December and the cold, Idaho air prickles against the back of his neck, despite his thick jacket. Cas’s jacket is thin, appropriate for an Autumn run, not a winter that brings promises of blizzards. 

“Hello, Sam.” Clipped. Emotionless.

Sam swallows. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“I didn’t want you to.”

“You can’t mean that, Cas.”

“Like I told Dean, I’m moving on.”

“From us?”

Cas’s glare is still as stony as ever. “I have nothing else to offer. My powers—they’ve been waning ever since Chuck—-” He swallows. “My grace is nearly gone.” He motions with a hand to his throat. 

Sam remembers the last time Cas’s grace was nearly gone and chokes on the guilt. He teetered on the edge of death for almost an entire year. Cas has been alone this entire time. Falling. By himself. With no one to catch him.

Cas isn’t done though. “So whatever it is you need my help with—I can’t. I’m sorry, but I have nothing to give.”

“You think I came all the way out here because of a hunt? Cas, I came out for you.”  _ For Dean _ remains unspoken, hanging in the air between them. Dean’s been. . . Sam’s never seen Dean like this. Even when Cas died, back when Jack was born, Dean wasn’t like this. Dean was depressed back then, but he still fought through it, coping in his own way, even if it wasn’t healthy.

Now, though. . . Dean’s just shut down. Barely eats, barely sleeps, drinks more than ever before. Now, Dean’s given up, and it all comes back to Cas leaving. To Dean pushing Cas away.

“You’re family.”

Cas rolls his eyes. It sends a sharp pang through Sam’s heart. Cas doesn’t believe him.

“Forgive my disbelief,” Cas says, “but I only ever seem to hear that line when you or your brother need something from me. And the last time your brother looked me in the eye, he said, quite clearly, that I’m dead to him.”

Sam wants to wring Dean’s neck. Shake him like a soda can. Fuck.

“You know Dean. You know how he gets, and if you could just see him right now—He didn’t mean it. You have to know he didn’t mean it.”

“Then where is he?”

Sam’s speechless for a moment. Brain lagging behind his mouth, “What?”

“If he didn’t mean it, then where is he?” Cas cranes his neck, looking around the parking lot for the Impala, presumably. But the Impala isn’t here. It’s back at the bunker, with Dean. Sam drove the Mustang up here.

“If you come back home, Cas, please—Dean will grovel at your feet, I swear.”

Cas  _ snorts _ and shakes his head. “No. If Dean is truly sorry, then  _ he  _ should be the one coming to  _ me. _ ” Then, Cas sighs, shoulders sagging. The action startles Sam. makes everything click in his head. Cas is becoming human. “Sometimes I think that maybe my brothers and sisters were right all along. It doesn’t matter. I’m done coming whenever Dean Winchester snaps his fingers. I am not the Winchesters’ dog.”

“Of course not—“

“If you’ll excuse me, my shift doesn’t end for another three hours.”

And with that, Cas goes back into the store, and resumes his spot stacking candies, leaving Sam out in the cold, open air.

.

.

.

Sam stares at his phone for a long time. Is he supposed to go back to the bunker, empty handed? Shatter Dean’s already splintered heart further? Does he go back to the bunker and stay silent, keep Cas a secret, and watch Dean drink himself into the grave?

He waits until the winter sun dips below the horizon, snow flurries start to fall from the sky, and Cas closes the shop at nine p.m., turning the lights off one by one, locking the doors, and winds a scarf around his neck as he walks away.

Sam turns on autopilot, slipping out of the car and following. He trails for less than three minutes before Cas stops, sighs, and says, “I know you’re there, Sam.” The annoyance has never been more clear. Sam grits his teeth and closes the space between them. Cas turns, folding his arms together and tucking each hand under the opposite armpit. “I told you to go home.”

“Is that really what you want? You want to stay back? Wait, where are you even staying, Cas? Do you have an apartment?”

“Does it matter?”

“Does it— of course it matters! I want to know you’re safe!”

“I have a room. I’m safe. You needn’t worry about me, Sam, really, just—-please leave.”

The wind howls; the snow flurries land in Cas’s hair, sticking to his eyelashes. They melt when he blinks, streaking down his face like fabrication of tear stains. Sam takes the moment to really take Cas in. His clothes are well-worn, and his sneakers have seen better days. His skin is paler than normal, hair longer, curling at the nape of his neck. He looks tired, and Sam doubts the truthfulness about the room. Knowing Cas, “a room” could be the bus stop. He wants to clarify, ask instead,  _ do you have a bed _ , but the words are stuck in his throat and they don’t come out. He wants to ask,  _ are you getting enough to eat _ , ask,  _ do you have enough money _ , because eight hundred dollars can only be stretched so thin, and Sam knows that a minimum wage salary won’t meet all his needs. 

His hand hovers above his pocket, fingers twitching to reach for his wallet, to give Cas all the cash he has, another hacked card. 

Instead, he just stands there, the wind howling like a lonely wolf, and looks into Cas’s stern eyes. 

He takes a breath, and what comes out is, “I missed you.” 

Cas’s jaw twitches. 

“You didn’t say goodbye. You just left. I didn’t know you were gone until hours later. We thought you might be dead.”

Cas breaks eye contact, staring at the concrete between them, slowly being painted with snow. “Well, then Dean would’ve got what he wanted.”

Sam snaps. He reaches out and grabs Cas by the shoulder; only barely resists the urge to shake him. “Forget Dean! Okay? For just one minute, will you forget about him? What about me? What about what I want? Aren’t we family?”

Cas looks at Sam, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. Now that Sam’s started, he can’t hold it back.

“What did I do to deserve you cutting me off? Dean pissed you off, okay, but me? I’m your family too, and you don’t get to just disappear into the night, never to be heard from again. Okay?” Sam tugs, pulling Cas towards him, swallowing him into a hug. Sam wraps his arms around Cas tightly, and he resists crying only because he doesn’t want the tears to freeze in his eyes. “I thought you were dead.”

It’s out, and Sam exhales, muscles turning to jelly. He keeps hold of Cas. After several moments, Cas mutters into his chest.

“I’m sorry, Sam.” He pulls back just enough so that his face isn’t squished against Sam’s chest. “I didn’t think you’d be bothered.”

It’s a hammerblow to his chest. Sam’s throat catches.

“You and Dean always have each other,” he continues, “and I—-with Jack gone, I have nothing.”

“That’s not true.”

Cas pushes against Sam’s chest to get away, shaking his head. “But it is, I’m, I’m—” Cas takes a shaky breath, and it’s frightening to see him so frazzled; Cas is always the one to keep composure, no matter what disaster jumps them from the corner. Sam tries to grab onto Cas’s shoulder again, but Cas shakes it off.

“I’ve hurt you, again,” he finally gets out, stepping backwards. “I’ll always hurt you and Dean. Yes, it’s better this way.”

“Better what way?”

Cas won’t look him in the eye. He nods to himself. “Yes, it’s better it’s like this. This way, we can’t hurt one another anymore.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Cas?”

Cas looks up, eyes teary, glistening in the moonlight. “It was nice to see you, Sam. Please have a safe trip home.” He turns and runs, kicking up snow that is quickly covered up once more by the falling flurries. 

Sam, stunned, stands there helplessly, watching as Cas disappears into the night. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks again to [bunni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kradarua/pseuds/kradarua) for being my beta. She really knows how to whip all my dangling modifiers into shape. Go show her some love!

Sam paces up and down the sidewalk for a while, even more conflicted than ever. He can’t leave while Cas is upset, but Cas doesn’t want him here. Cas doesn’t want to come home. Sam hadn’t considered that possibility. Never in his dreams did their conversation go like that. What is he supposed to do now? 

He shivers, breath curling in front of his face in icy tendrils. Cas has disappeared around the corner, and Sam has no way to catch up to him anymore.

He turns around and heads back to the Gas N Sip to grab the car. The heat is blessed and Sam warms his hands in front of the vent for a few minutes before he puts the car in gear and drives down the block. He tries to look for footprints in the snow, but the new fall has covered it up, like an eraser against Cas’s presence. Sam circles the block for an hour, driving down roads of hotels and apartment complexes, and still there’s no sign of Cas. After ten, Sam decides to turn in for the night; Cas is gone, for now. At least he’s not working blind anymore. He’ll find him again at the gas station tomorrow.

Sam finds a motel of the usual Winchester caliber, takes a hot shower, and changes into warm pajamas. The TV plays idly for a while as he fiddles with his phone, thumb hovering above  _ Dean _ for far too long to be comfortable. Sam chews on his cuticle, debating. Dean needs to know that Cas is okay; he’s been worried, even if he’s reluctant to admit it. But Sam knows his brother; brash, pig-headed, shoot first and ask questions later. He doesn’t want to deal with Dean’s temper right now, and anyway, what is he supposed to say? He found Cas, then lost him? 

Sam sets an alarm for the morning, then puts his phone face down on the nightstand. He tries to bury his worried thoughts in late-night television, but the campy attitude of  _ Full House  _ reruns only brings tsunamis of reminders about the reality of his life. It’s a distant dream. 

He turns the television and the lamp off and flips over to his stomach to try and sleep, but he becomes acutely aware of the bed and pillow and blanket, and then he becomes acutely aware of the snow outside, and the howling wind, and he can’t stop the insidious whispers inside his brain. 

_ Where is Cas sleeping? Is he warm? Safe? _

Like a hamster on its wheel, the thoughts circle and squeak, for hours, until bleary-eyed, Sam notices the red dots of the side-clock flash  _ 1:12 a.m. _ , and finally the exhaustion wins.

.

.

.

His alarm is like a jackhammer to his skull. Sam reaches out, not looking, and knocks his phone off the table. It falls under the bed and continues to blare obnoxiously. Sam gets out of bed and kneels on the floor, reaching for his phone, each incessant beep another pound to his head. He finally manages to grab it and turn it off, and then he sits on the floor for a minute, rubbing his temples. His throat is dry and his head hurts. He sits there for a moment, enjoying the quiet, before he pushes himself up to his feet and wobbles to the bathroom. He turns the shower on and, while it warms up, pees and brushes his teeth. As he stands under the spray, he thinks about what he’s going to say to Cas today to convince him to come home. He’s the only person outside Dean that Sam has now. He’s Sam’s family, and Sam can’t in good conscience leave him.

But Sam also understands the importance of choice and autonomy. Dean and Cas may have a ‘profound bond’, but Sam and Cas have each been vessels for Lucifer; they don’t talk about it, but there’s a deeper understanding between them now, one that hadn’t ever been there before. It’s quiet and nestled in the space between them. Sam doesn’t want to take Cas’s freedom. 

But he’s family, and he shouldn’t have to suffer, either.

The conflicting thoughts make Sam’s headache worse, and he stands there under the spray until the hot water runs out, attacking him instead with little pinpricks of near-frozen water.

Sam dries, dresses, and then makes his way back to the Gas N Sip. He grabs his phone and it’s only then that he notices the blinking light.

_ 2 Missed Calls from DEAN _

_ 5 Text Messages from DEAN _

_ 6: 13 a.m. did you go on an early morning beer run??? _

_ 6: 17 a.m. or is this your new jogging hr? _

_ 6: 22 a.m. Answer your phone _

_ 6: 28 a.m. dude where are you???? _

_ 6: 37 a.m. im kicking your ass when I see you next _

Sam bites his lips and thumbs out a quick reply:  _ Sorry, caught a hunt, Be home soon. _

He barely makes it out the door before his phone is ringing.

“A hunt?” Dean snaps, voice slurred. “On your own? Without telling me? Are you serious?”

Sam sighs and climbs into the car. “It’s fine. I found it last night.” It’s not technically a lie, and that makes it easier for the words to ride Sam’s tongue. “It’s no big deal, just a restless spirit, I think. I’ll be home soon.”

“Where are you, I’ll come meet you.”

“Idaho, but it’s okay. Dean, I’m fine. I just needed to get out of the bunker for a bit. Besides, you’re in no shape to drive. I can practically smell the alcohol through the phone.” 

Dean grumbles incoherently. Sam can hear him moving around the kitchen, probably making something to help with the hangover. “You call me,” he says eventually, “Things get hairy, I’ll be right up there.”

“I will,” Sam acquiesces, hoping to end this phone call.

“And bring back some potatoes.” The line clicks off. 

Sam ignores the guilt in his gut and leaves the motel room, heading back to the gas station.

.

.

.

It’s not Cas at the counter, but a younger, college-aged kid with pimples and greasy hair.

“I’m looking for the guy that closed last night.” Sam winces, realizing he’s not only being creepy, but also revealing incompetence; he doesn’t know what alias Cas is using right now. The kid doesn’t seem to care, though. He pops his gum and looks at yesterday’s schedule.

“It’s Clarence’s day off,” he says nonchalantly. “Dude usually goes to the church Wednesday mornings.”

Sam frowns, eyebrows pressed together. After everything they learned about God, after everything God put them through, why would Cas be hanging out at a church? It’s not unusual for Cas to make strange decisions, but Sam can’t rationalize this one. He gets the address of the church from the kid and buys a lukewarm coffee as a thank-you. 

The church is only a few blocks away and Sam parks in the back corner under the trees. The parking lot isn’t very full, but he likes to remain as inconspicuous as possible. The snow crunches under his boots and he makes his way to the main entrance, dusting off his jacket and hair. The warmth is wonderful and Sam stands there by the door for a few moments, enjoying the sensation. It’s quiet and smells of dusty books and old people. The foyer leads to a long hallway; the sanctuary that sits on Sam’s right is locked. When he peers through the stained glass he sees two janitors dusting the pews and windows. Further down the hall is a reception area, where an elderly woman sits at the computer playing solitaire. Next to her is a sign, written in green marker: 

_ GRIEF COUNSELING ROOM 13 _

Sam stops and stares at the sign. His throat dries up.

“Can I help you, young man?” the old lady says, peering over her bifocals. Sam licks his lips and gestures to the sign.

“Uh, I’m here for a friend,” he says, voice catching. 

The lady smiles, dentures too big for her mouth. “That’s nice. Room’s down that hallway.” She points with a skinny finger to another hallway to Sam’s left. Sam forces a smile and thanks her, bowing his head slightly.

He jogs to room thirteen. The door is slightly cracked, and he stands right outside it, sneaking a look in. There’s a circle of chairs, each one filled with men and women of various ages, some more war-torn than others. Cas sits at the six o clock position, his back to Sam, but Sam recognizes the hair, the slight slouch, and, of course, Cas’s voice.

“I just,” Cas begins, then pauses as his voice catches. He clears his throat. “I still wake up every morning with this hole, and it feels like it’ll never be filled, not without Jack. Am I supposed to live the rest of my life feeling this way?”

There’s murmurs, assurances, people speaking up to concur. Sam doesn’t really hear what the others have to say; his mind zeros in on Cas’s words, and his heart constricts in his chest, throat burns with bile.

He remembers Cas falling to his knees in the graveyard, a weak sound of desperation escaping from his throat. He remembers the tears— actual tears, from Castiel, angel of the Lord, quivering under his eyelashes. He remembers Cas’s fiery rage at Belphegor defiling Jack’s corpse. 

It’s hard to think about Jack, so Sam tries not to. But that means he hasn’t been thinking about how Cas would cope, either. 

_ My father is Castiel _ , Jack told him in their first conversation.  _ I chose him _ . 

With Jack around, Cas was more content than Sam had ever seen him. Once the Apocalypse had been averted and Heaven gave him the boot, Cas just drifted around, mostly aimless, with the brothers as his only real tether to anything meaningful. His only company. Until Jack came.

And then he was ripped away. By God’s hands.

Sam pushes the lodge in his throat downwards, realizing for the first time, that Cas’s dad killed his kid. 

“Am I supposed to go home?” Cas continues. “Home won’t be the same without him, and I—I don’t know if I can stomach that. How am I supposed to handle passing by his room every morning and again every night, knowing he’s not safe sleeping in his bed, or watching television?”

Sam does the only thing that seems reasonable. He turns and walks back down the corridor, to the reception area, and sits in one of the uncomfortable chairs. He forces himself to smile at the secretary, then he leans forward and puts his head in his hands, exhaling. 

He feels like an invader. That’s exactly what he is. He intruded on a personal moment between Cas and these people he’s formed some kind of bond with, listened in on something he wasn’t meant to hear. There’s a flame of anger that Cas would be so open with these strangers, but guarded with Dean and him, but it’s quickly extinguished. There’s no point in his anger; he’s tired of being angry.

Sam sits there, numb, for another twenty minutes until the group lets out. Sam waits as one by one people come down the hallway, then leave. Cas is the last one.

He sees Sam, freezes for one second, then attempts to brush past him.

“Cas, wait.” Sam’s on his feet, following.

“I thought you were going home,” Cas says, looking forward.

“I thought I’d stay. A day, maybe two? If that’s okay.”

“You’re free to make your own choices.”

“I just—I was worried.  _ Am _ worried. Cas, I’m sorry about Jack.”

“ _ Don’t. _ ”

But Sam presses on. “No, I need to. We should’ve talked about it. We should talk about him.” They make their way out the main exit, into the parking lot. 

“I don’t want to talk about him. Not with you.”

Sam ignores the sting. “Okay, that’s—that’s fair. Look, after last night, I couldn’t leave. Not until I knew for sure that you were really okay, really safe.”

Cas makes a noise of frustration. He stops walking, turns and faces Sam, arms spread out. 

“I’m really okay, Sam. Is this enough yet?” Cas’s face falls and he hangs his head. “I know you mean well,” he says, softer, shame etched inside, “but it’s better if we part ways. I can’t hurt you or Dean anymore, and you two can’t hurt me.”

“You don’t mean that. We’re all good for each other, Cas. We’re a family.” He’s losing him. Cas is about to run again; he’s got that look in his eye, that twitch in his shoulders. Selfishly, Sam is glad Cas’s wings don’t work anymore. Sam does not miss the days when Cas could vanish in the blink of an eye, off to some far away place he and Dean can’t follow, just because he was uncomfortable. Grounded, Cas is catchable. 

“Look,” Sam presses on, desperate, “one more night. Okay? Just let me see where you’re staying so I know you’re safe. For my peace of mind. Please?”

Cas shifts on his feet and looks away from Sam. “I’m not supposed to have guests over after hours.” 

It’s a weird detail, but one Sam can’t focus on right now. “When’s after hours?”

“Nine p.m.” 

“Then I’ll be gone by nine. Before, even! I’ll be out of your hair by eight-fifty eight.” Sam swallows and stares at the frozen breath in front of his face.

Cas clenches his teeth. “407 Hollow Lane,” he says, still avoiding Sam’s eye. “You can come at six. Ask for Clarence.”

A weight is lifted off Sam’s shoulders. He wants to hug Cas again, but resists, only because Cas’s body language is still guarded. “Thanks, Cas,” he says instead. Cas just nods, then pushes past Sam, disappearing once more around a corner. 

.

.

.

Sam waits for six to roll around by puttering in his motel room and watching daytime television. He barely entertains the thought of what it might be like if he took his family on  _ Dr. Phil _ to mediate his life when his phone pings.

It’s a text from Dean. 

_ 2: 07 p.m. How’s the hunt? _

Sam bites his lip. He can’t keep lying. Lying is the cause of most of their tension. He calls.

“Yeah?” Dean at least sounds more sober than he did this morning. 

“There’s no hunt.” Better to rip the bandage off.

“What?”

“There’s no hunt. I found Cas.”

A pregnant pause. Sam counts the seconds. One, two, three, four, five—

“You what?”

“I left because I had a hunch. Cas is back in Idaho, just a few towns over from Rexford, actually.”

Dean swallows. “Is he—”

“He’s not hurt. He’s human. Or close enough, anyway.”

“Oh.” Another pause. “But you’re on your way home now, right?”

“Not yet.”

“What do you mean ‘not yet’? Cas is with you, isn’t he?”

Sam looks to the ceiling, frustration resting on his teeth. “No.”

“Well, why the hell not? Have you asked?”

“Have I asked?” Sam yells, unable to hold back. “Of course I’ve asked! He told me he doesn’t want to come back to the bunker. Whatever you said, it crossed a line, Dean. And that’s saying something.”

“Doesn’t want to come—of course he wants to come back! It’s his home!”

“He doesn’t seem to think so.”

“Look, you’re in the Mustang, right? There’s a first aid kit in there, with enough morphine to put down a horse. Dose him up and throw him in the trunk if you have to!”

“For fuck’s sake, Dean, can you even hear yourself? I’m not  _ kidnapping _ him!” Sam hopes none of his neighbors can hear this phone call; motel walls aren’t known for being thick. 

“It’s not kidnapping! He wants to be here!”

“You’re really not listening, are you?”

“What the hell is so important in Idaho he’ll take it over his family?”

“Grief counseling, apparently,” Sam says, not holding back the bite.

Dean inhales and stutters. Then goes quiet. Sam sighs and pinches his nose, sitting on the bed. 

“I’m gonna see him tonight. I told him I wasn’t going to leave until I at least knew he was somewhere safe. He’s humoring me. He’s safe, he’s alive—that’s more than we thought just two days ago.”

“It’s not enough,” Dean says, not even attempting to hide the ache in his voice. Sam can easily imagine Dean on the other end, teary eyed and red-faced. “He needs to come home.”

“Then by all means,  _ you _ come up here and  _ you _ tell him,” Sam snaps. He’s met with the dial tone, a low buzz that makes Sam’s teeth ache. Sam hangs up his line and lays down, staring at the water-stained ceiling, wondering if two p.m. is too early for a drink. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [My Tumblr](https://castielsdisciple.tumblr.com/). I want to talk to you! 
> 
> If you enjoyed, please leave a comment. They make my day :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again to [bunni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kradarua/pseuds/kradarua) for being an awesome beta!

At five to six, Sam parks the Mustang and stares at the flashing neon sign;  _ VACAN Y _ , it flashes, the missing  _ C  _ standing out like a missing front tooth.

Above it reads  _ Hostel _ , and Sam sits in the Mustang for a while, looking at that sign and occasionally glancing down at his watch as the seconds tick by.

At two to six, Sam exits the car and surveys the area. There are rows of buildings aligned in a U-shape, with one lone building sitting right in the middle. Fake potted plants line the cracked asphalt pathway up to the door of the main office. Sam gets to the door,—which is in desperate need of a power-washing—and enters. A bell chimes above his head.

The main office is tidy, though it has that familiar smell of dust and age. An elderly woman sits at the desk, popping her gum and looking at a magazine through her bi-focals. “Yes?” she says, not looking up. She licks her thumb and turns the page.

Sam clears his throat. “I’m looking for a guest. Clarence.”

She looks up over her glasses, and visibly assesses Sam, toe to forehead. “On what business?” She doesn’t bother to keep the judgement out of her voice. Sam flushes and stammers, then shivers at the accusation. It’s not like that, but she won’t believe him if he tries to explain.

“I’m a friend,” he says. “Sam.”

She continues to frown. Without breaking eye contact, she grabs the phone and dials an extension number with just her pinky finger. She cradles the phone between her shoulder and ear. “Clarence, doll, were you expecting company from a man named Sam?. . . Okay, I’ll send him your way.”

She hangs up. “Clarence is in room ten. No visitors are allowed past nine. I take it that’s your car out by the bushes?”

Sam shoves his hands into his pockets and can only manage a nod. 

The woman shrugs, then looks back to her magazine. Taking his cue, Sam leaves to search the courtyard for room ten. Behind the main office is another building, roughly the same size, with an old sign that reads  _ Lavatories _ . One sign is labeled Men and the other Women, holding little hallways that turn into an L shape. Further back are the bedrooms. Sam looks for door ten and finds it tucked away in a corner of the building. He stands outside the door and looks at the red, peeling paint before he knocks hurriedly. 

The door opens in less than three seconds. “Come in, Sam.” Cas walks away, leaving the door ajar. Sam enters, consciously closing the door and then securing the deadbolt. He turns to face Cas and the words dry up in his throat as he examines the room.

It’s nice. There are two twin beds, a small TV on the opposite wall, and a ceiling fan. The carpet is outdated and in need of a shampoo, the mini fridge hums loudly, and a light bulb flickers above their heads, but it’s clean. Sam can see a very small kitchenette in the far corner, composed of one counter, a microwave, and a hot plate.

It’s hardly any different than the motels he and Dean have stayed in over the years. 

“It’s nice, Cas,” Sam says, because he can’t think of anything else. “ Have you been here long?”

Cas busies himself by rifling through the kitchen cabinets. He pulls out two cans of soup and empties them into bowls. “Four months.” He puts one bowl in the microwave and presses the buttons. The beeps are loud.

Sam tries to ignore the knot in his gut. “Oh. You’ve been gone for six. What about those other months?”

“I slept in my truck for a while. I eventually left it somewhere safe. I didn’t want you or Dean to find me because of it.” 

“You’ve been here this whole time?”

Cas tenses. He swallows and Sam follows the line down his throat. “No. At first, I went up to North Cove.”

North Cove, Washington. Where Jack was born. Where Cas died.

Cas keeps his back to Sam, fiddling with a dish rag as the microwave hums over his voice. “I stayed there for a few days. I wondered. . . I  _ hoped _ I would feel. . . something. Anything. There’s a transference of energy, you see, at the hour of births and deaths. It leaves a thumbprint, so to speak. But there was nothing.”

The microwave beeps and beeps and beeps. Cas takes it out. Steam dances towards the ceiling in slender, burning curls. Cas puts the second bowl in.

“Then what did you do?”

A shiver runs down Cas’s spine. He wraps his arms around his torso and sways side to side. Sam’s never seen Cas nervous before. In his mind, Cas is always stoic, rarely perturbed by honesty or niceties. In their hours of panic, when the world was falling apart at their feet, Cas was the one to remind them to keep it together. He’s rarely affected by devastation. Sam’s watched as Cas has been exiled from Heaven, crippled from war, disowned by his flock; and still, he’s there at the Winchestes’ side, sword in hand, ready for battle. Things just don’t bother Cas, Sam always thought.

Until now, standing in that cramped hostel room, with a microwave loud enough that Sam worries about the radiation. Sam wonders how much of it was genuine, and how much of it was nothing more than Cas swallowing down his own feelings because he had to. Because if all three of them—Cas and Sam and Dean— gave up everytime it got dark, the world would be gone.

For the first time since Cas pulled Dean Winchester from the Pit, he’s been given the breadth and time to grieve. 

And he’s had to do it all alone.

“I,” Cas says, finally, “I wandered. I hitchhiked for a while, just to get away. I didn’t really care where I was going. Most people were kind. Several gave me some money, or bought me food. But there was one man— he wanted fellatio.”

Sam grinds his teeth together. It doesn’t matter that Cas’s back is turned to him; he pulls at his face with his hand and glances at the water-stained ceiling, wondering how much he can bear to hear.

“I left,” Cas continues, staring at his knuckles, “but it was raining that night. I made it to the bus stop and I had very little money left. At the bus station, I learned I was in Boise, and then I remembered Rexford.” 

The microwave beeps again. Cas pulls out the second bowl and turns. “I remembered the people were kind to me, and though it was difficult, I managed on my own there, as a human. I couldn’t go back to Rexford, of course; it was very likely I would see people I once knew, and they would have questions I couldn’t answer. So I came here to this town, and I’ve been here since.”

Cas carries the bowls and sets them on the small dinette table. “All I have is water,” he says, finally meeting Sam’s eye. There’s sadness pooling in his irises, but a sternness too, and that same seriousness and confidence that’s always been synonymous with Cas. 

Sam clears his throat. “Water’s great.” He forces a smile and stands there awkwardly while Cas fills too plastic cups with water from the tap. Then Cas sits in the chair, which squeaks against the linoleum. He begins to eat and Sam finally takes that as his cue to sit down as well. He isn’t very hungry, but he can’t waste Cas’s food, so he forces down spoonfuls of soup, not really tasting anything. 

The room isn’t as nice as the ones back at the bunker, but it’s a room; it assuages Sam’s fears of bus stops and store rooms. 

“How’d you find this place?” Sam asks. It’s good that Cas seems to be doing well. It’s good that he has shelter. Cas doesn’t share much about his time in Rexford, not even with Dean, but Sam knows he wasn’t doing this well back then. 

“The librarian directed me here. And Cheryl gives me a discount since I’m on an extended stay; she lets me stay here for three hundred dollars a month.”

That is a really generous discount, and Sam makes a note to send something nice for Cheryl. 

The second twin bed in the room speaks loudly, though, and Cas follows Sam’s eyes towards it.

“Sometimes I have a roommate. People come and go all the time. The last one left three days ago. I didn’t particularly like him. He snored.” 

Sam swallows the huff of laughter that tickles at his throat. It’s funny to think about Cas being annoyed at someone snoring; he’s usually so unreadable, it’s hard to imagine him being affected by trivial things like that.

But it’s a reminder of where Cas is now. Human. He sleeps and he eats and he must get the everyday pains that come with work and age. He slouches slightly, shoulders pressed forward, and he blows on his spoon before he eats his soup. 

“You really doing okay, Cas?” Sam asks.

“I am.”

Sam presses his lips into a thin line. He can’t help but replay the scene he saw earlier today; Cas in the church, trying so hard to process his grief. No one really got a chance to even begin to process what happened with Chuck in the graveyard. The blows came one after another after another. The monsters rising from the ground, the town plagued by their old haunts, Belphegor and his cocky grin, wearing Jack’s face that didn’t look like Jack. Sam’s been trying to handle Dean, been trying to ignore the ache in his shoulder from a wound that won’t heal and he stays awake most nights as long as his body will stand so he doesn’t have to suffer the dreams of all the Other Deans and all the Other Sams and their untimely fates. Plus, there’s been the worrying about Cas, about what he’s been up to, if he’s even alive— Sam hasn’t allowed himself the room to breathe or even think about Jack.

There really was no time back when they were trying to save that town. But there was time on the trip home. There was time when the door slammed behind them as they made their way down the spiral staircase, back into their underground sanctuary. There was time in the hours before Dean and Cas fought about whatever they fought about. 

They should’ve talked.

Cas shouldn’t have to rely on strangers to talk about Jack.

Sam inhales. “About the church. . .”

“What about it?” Cas snaps. There’s old bitterness there. It’s a wound that’s merely scabbed, not healed.

“We can talk about it. About Jack.”

“Can we?” Cas pointedly avoids Sam’s eye, stirring his spoon around the broth of a soup that’s beginning to go cold.

“I’m sorry,” Sam manages. Sometimes he’s not sure who’s worse with their emotions:Dean or Cas. Both of them, it’s like pulling teeth, and Sam wishes he could’ve been a better role model. But the reality is, he’s hardly any better. He knows he can clam up and swallow down feelings just as well as Dean. He’s just better at pretending. “I miss him too.” His voice breaks. Tears he hadn’t let fall begin to burn in his eyes. “It wasn’t right. None of it was right, and Dean and I— we shouldn’t have done that, shouldn’t have put him in there—”

“You’re damn right,” Cas says, without anger, simply factually. “Don’t you see now? Your mother— it wasn’t him. It was Chuck. And, Chuck may have been organizing things, but our actions have always been our own. Chuck did not put Jack in the Ma’lak box, and Chuck did not point that gun at him.”

All this time, Cas has only been able to share half-truths with his therapy group; now that Sam is here and he can be honest, all the emotions pour out; a tsunami of six months of grief, rage, doubt.

“And it wasn’t just enough that Jack had to die—Sam, he suffered, he  _ suffered _ , I can still hear him screaming in my head all the time— his body had to be defiled. And I had to destroy it. Did you know that? I tried to tell Dean, but he wouldn’t listen, he never listens—Jack’s gone, and his corpse is rotting away in Hell somewhere.”

Cas pauses to take a breath. Sam swallows.

“What happened in Hell?”

And Cas tells him. How Belphegor double-crossed them (“I knew we couldn’t trust him”) and how Cas had to kill him. Cas tells him all about Belphegor’s plan, and how if he had succeeded, his power would rival that of Chuck’s. Cas tells him how, with his dying breath, Belphegor disguised his voice as Jack’s. Cas tells Sam how Belphegor almost managed to kill him, and Sam’s heart skips a beat, imagining the scenario where Cas is dead and his body is lost in Hell.

And then, Cas tells Sam what he’s been wondering for months. What could Dean have possibly said to make Cas storm out the door and cut away all contact with them? 

_ “Something always goes wrong.” _

_ “Why is that something always you?”  _

Cas tells him and Sam can’t speak for a long minute. The analog clock hanging on the wall ticks and ticks and ticks and Cas appraises Sam, waiting for his reaction.

“Dean shouldn’t have said that,” Sam finally says, the words leaving an ashy taste in his mouth. “And he should get the chance to apologize in person.”

Cas huffs and looks back at his bowl. He stirs the soup again but makes no effort to eat anymore.

“I was going to run away with Jack,” he says, tears finally falling free. “After everything I’ve given for you and for Dean, I was going to leave, so Jack could be safe. You don’t understand, Sam. I felt him, before he was born. He is—” Cas chokes on the words, “he was a good boy. He had a good soul. I wasn’t lying when I said he was good for us.”

“No,” Sam agrees quietly, “you were right. He was.” Having Jack helped them recover from their childhoods. Together, the three of them could give Jack what they never had: safety, security, love. 

“I miss him so much,” Cas is gasping for air now, face red and snotty, body tensed like a coil. “Does it ever go away? Does it always feel like this? My brothers and sisters died all around me, more than I care to think about by my own hand; it’s never felt like  _ this _ . Like I’m drowning. Sam, please, does it ever go away?”

“Does what?”

“The hole.” Cas makes a fist over his chest. “I feel so empty, all the time. Nothing helps. Anything I try is just a bandage over a gaping wound.”

Sam swallows and ponders. How does one explain grief to an angel? He’s lost more friends and family than what’s fair or just: Mom, Dad, Bobby, Charlie, Ellen, Jo, Ash. Jessica. The list could go on forever. 

Cas is staring at him, waiting for an answer. Sam’s gaze drops to the tabletop. It’s covered in cheap plastic that leaves behind smudged fingerprints and grease.

“You learn,” he begins, his own throat feeling tight and hot. “You learn to. . . be okay. You learn to accept what’s happened and to live  _ for _ people. To honor them. A lot of people have died for honorable reasons, and it’s important to not let your grief overshadow that. You have to remind yourself of the reasons to get up in the morning, and some of those reasons are making their deaths worthwhile; carrying on their legacy, making sure their work gets carried out.”

Cas continues to watch, face stern. He puts his spoon down and folds his hands on the tabletop. “And what was honorable about Jack’s death? What mission was he trying to carry out? How do I make the death of our child worthwhile?”

“You can’t,” Sam says. “But you have to live. You can’t give up. Death is around everyone everyday, Cas, it’s part of being human. What would happen if everyone just gave up and laid down every time someone they loved died? Chuck wouldn’t have to take out the world, because we’d take ourselves out. You’re right. Jack died for no reason. He died because God is a dick and he wasn’t happy with how his game was playing out. But if you roll over, if you give up, then he wins,  _ again _ . Don’t let him win again.”

Sam stares at Cas, implores him, he and hopes the message can get across. Because life sucks. Life sucks and it hurts and there’s pain around every corner, darkness waiting to strike and you can never prepare for it. 

But there’s also light; laughter and friendship and family, things worth living for, things that make the darkness not seem so bad. Things that are worth suffering through the darkness for.

Cas’s eyes glance to the clock. “I think it’s time for you to go now, Sam.”

Sam looks. 8:53. He has no idea how time slipped by so quickly. He chews his lips and racks his brain for something else to say— anything to get Cas to change his mind, to come back home with him. There’s nothing.

Cas stands, the chair screeching against the floor, and he walks over to Sam’s side. “I’ll miss you.”

“Come back with me,” he says, hoping simplicity is enough. But Cas just shakes his head.

“I can’t. I won’t sit there, forced to wade around Dean’s wrath.”

“Please. He’s not mad anymore, I promise.” 

“Then where is he?” 

And Sam has no answer.

Cas smiles softly. He sighs, then leans in for a hug. Sam wraps his arms around Cas and tries to savor the moment, knowing this may be the last time he sees Cas in person.

“Call me, okay? Just to let me you’re alive.”

Cas is quiet for a moment. “Okay,” he says on an exhale. Then he lets go, and it’s like Sam’s lost a weight. It’s the bad kind of weightlessness.”Goodbye, Sam.”

Sam won’t say it. It’s too final. “See you around, Cas. Uh, thanks for dinner.” He feels bad he didn’t eat all of it and he resists the urge to give Cas the cash in his wallet, only because he knows Cas will refuse. He wonders if he gives it to Cheryl if she’ll pass it along. Or if he can pay Cas’s rent for the next month. Anything to help.

But he can’t stand to be in that room any longer. He gives Cas one last look, then leaves, back into the chilly outside.

His chest is shaky and his eyes are blurry, and he’s in no shape to begin the long, sixteen-plus hour drive back home. He walks back to the car, barely casting a look into the manager’s office and ignoring the icy stare Cheryl gives him through the windows, and then he drives back to the motel and lays awake for a long time. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to [bunni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kradarua/pseuds/kradarua) for beta-ing again!
> 
> Sorry this one took so long. I've not had a great month. Here's hoping things start to get better.
> 
> Enjoy!

Sam wakes up to a rapid knocking at his door. He squints in the dark and eyes the bedside clock. It’s just past five a.m. Way too early for it to be housekeeping. The knocking continues, getting more and more impatient. Sam clicks on the lamp and grabs his pistol from his duffel bag, keeping it parallel with his hip as he walks towards the door, finger resting against the barrell. The knocking continues, then— “Sam, come on, open up!”

Sam pauses, then peers through the peephole.

It’s Dean.

Sam relaxes, sighing, then undoes the deadbolt and opens the door. Dean pushes past, without even muttering a hello, and dashes towards the bathroom, where he slams the door shut behind him.

Sam stands there, flabbergasted, as he locks the door once more. “Uh, hello to you too.”

“I’ve been holding it in since Utah,” Dean says, “so you can wait just a minute.” The toilet flushes, then the sink runs. Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and sinks back down onto the bed, massaging the cramp in the back of his neck. 

Dean exits, wiping his hands on his jeans. They’re wrinkled, as is his shirt, and he has dark, heavy bags under his eyes. “You got any coffee in this place?” He turns to rummage through the bare cupboards, then makes a disappointed sound when he discovers the answer is a firm no.

“How are you here?” 

Dean looks at Sam like he’s grown a second head. “I drove.”

“From Lebanon? That’s like an eighteen hour drive.”

“Managed it in fifteen,” Dean says proudly. Sam thinks on that and does the math. 

“Wait—that means you left yesterday afternoon. After our phone call?”

Dean shrugs. “You were right. This whole thing with Cas— you weren’t a player there. It’s not right that you’ve got to try and clean up my mess.” Dean claps his hands and rubs them together, then swings his arms by his sides— a nervous tick he only rarely shows. “So, what’s the game plan?”

“Game plan? Dean, I told you. He doesn’t want to go home. He’s got roots here now.”

Dean rolls his eyes. There’s frustration, worry, anger, but also fear, that ever-nagging iota of awareness that this is one screw up that can’t be undone. “Trust me, he does not want to be working at a Gas N Sip for the rest of his mortal life. He hates it.”

“Does he hate it? Or do you hate it?”

Dean stares and dances on the heels of his feet. “Where is he? You said you were gonna stop by his place last night.”

“A hostel. And would you listen? He’s not gonna be happy with you just showing up on his doorstep. He’s still pretty pissed at you.”

“He’s been pissed at me before.”

“Dean.” Finally, Dean looks at Sam with the aura of severity the situation calls for. “He told me what you said. What were you thinking?”

Dean has the decency to look ashamed. He swallows, then his eyes flicker down to his feet. “I wasn’t.”

“Forget about everything else for one second—forget Chuck, and the monsters, and ghosts, and everything--how are we gonna fix this?”

“That’s why I’m here! You told me yesterday to come up and fix it—well, here I am!”

“And what if this can’t be fixed?”

“We don’t know that. Really, we know better than that. C’mon, after everything the three of us have been through, literal heaven and hell riding our asses—there’s not a lot out there we can’t fix. Innocent people die every day, there’s always gonna be monsters out there, and one day, some monster’s gonna be quicker than us. Those can’t be fixed; this can. It has to be.”

“You pointed a gun at Jack’s head.”

Dean looks like he’s about to snap again, but then he hesitates and closes his eyes. He sighs. “I did, but I didn’t. I stopped. Shouldn’t that count for something?”

“That’s not really for me to decide.”

“Exactly! So let’s cut this chit-chat. Bring me to Cas.”

Sam deflates. There’s no arguing with Dean. Like Cas, he’s too stubborn for his own good. Sam considers that this is why they fight so much. They both dig their heels in the sand and refuse to relent, they’re constantly locking horns because they’re blinded by their perspectives. Dean’s clouded by anger, Cas’s clouded by his need to protect.

Dean’s not going to leave; won’t even consider the prospect of going home until he’s gotten his shot at fixing things with Cas.

Sam should be encouraging it. Dean’s showing a great depth of emotional maturity to show up here out of the blue, wanting to apologize. It’s a giant leap from those first few weeks, when he moped around the bunker like a teenager after their first breakup; when he cursed Cas under his breath. The question now, though, is will Cas let him? Will Cas give Dean the opportunity to speak? Is there anything Dean can say to fix the damage done?

“You should at least shower first,” Sam says, frowning. “You smell.”

Dean’s expression turns offended, but he quickly stops and sniffs the lapel of his shirt. Then, he nods in agreement. “I guess you’re right.”

He turns back into the bathroom. Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and curses his life. 

Chuck’s voice rings in his ears : There’s one universe—nothing but squirrels! 

Sam wonders how Squirrel Sam is faring. 

.  
.   
.

Sam checks the Gas N Sip first, but Cas isn’t working the morning shift, so he drives the car back to the hostel, and fidgets. 

“This is where he’s staying?” Dean says. For some reason, Sam is immediately defensive.

“It’s a nice place. Has a bed, A/C, a small kitchen.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Dean says, swallowing. “It’s just that, uh. . . he’s learned, is all.”

Sam’s staring presses Dean to continue. Dean scratches at the back of his head and stares at his feet. “Last time, he didn’t do so well, you know. He lived in the storeroom of that Gas N Sip.”

Sam didn’t know that, but he doesn’t have the energy to be mad. That’s years away now, long buried under all the more recent catastrophes they’ve had to face up against. Sam can’t grieve for what the Castiel of the past endured; he can only focus on the Castiel of now, and hope against all odds, however this ends, that there’s peace somewhere amongst the rubble.

Dean is waiting for Sam to say something. Sam clears his throat. “His landlady looks out for him.”

“Good,” Dean says hastily, “Uh, that’s great.” 

Sam knows his brother. He knows the hidden message under Dean’s facade of pleasantness. Dean’s always been a caretaker; not because it was thrust upon him, though that was also true in cases, but because it’s who he is in his heart. Dean is not the aloof drifter he likes to pretend to be; Dean clings to people like life preservers in a storm. Sam says, his landlady looks out for him, Dean thinks, because I didn’t.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Sam asks. Sometimes, he thinks, it’s better to walk away. Cas has always come back to them before, on his own time. Maybe if they wait, give him more space, he’ll find his own way back again. If Dean pushes—if things are said again, more words thrown like hot, angry knives—they might really mount the point of no return. Dean’s heart won’t be able to take it. After so many blows and blunders, another fight with Castiel might finally be what sends Dean off the edge. And then Sam wouldn’t be able to handle that.

“I have to,” Dean says. “I made this mess. Guess I should at least try and clean it up, too.” Dean opens the car door.

“Okay. You want me to come with?”

Dean shakes his head. “I need to do this on my own.”

Sam swallows. “Okay then.”

Dean climbs out of the car, closes the door, and walks towards Cas’s room. Sam deflates and waits for the world to crumble. 

.  
.  
.

Dean almost doesn’t knock.

He makes it to the door and prepares to knock, but he pauses with his fist is halfway there, suddenly aware of where he is and what he is doing.

He’s spent the better part of the last six months trying to forget about his fight with Cas. Trying not to think about Cas. It was going okay until Sam broke the news yesterday: I found Cas. He couldn’t ignore it, after that. He had to fix what was broken.

But now that he’s at the door, just inches between him and Cas, their fight comes back to the forefront of his mind and Sam’s words echo in his head. Doubt pulls at Dean’s heart.

What if this can’t be fixed?

What if Cas still won’t come home?

What if Dean ruined the last good thing he had? Shattered it in the heart of the bunker, their sanctuary?

That last glimpse of Cas’s face haunts Dean at night, and the bunker door closing behind Cas echoes in Dean’s skull when there’s no other noise to cover it up.

Dean and Cas have fought before. They’ve had full-on brawls before. But that night—that night was different. That fight crossed a line they’d never crossed before.

Dean stands there, fist halfway to the door, and he’s about to turn around and walk away—and the door opens.

And Cas is there, wearing a Gas N Sip vest and a look of shock.

They stare at each other for ten long seconds. 

“What are you doing here?” Cas says evenly. 

Dean swallows the lump in his throat. “Hi.”

“I already told Sam—”

“I know what you told Sam. But see, I’m not Sam. I’m—I’m here, Cas. You and Sam both asked where I was, and well, now I’m here.” Dean pats the sides of his legs for something to do with his hands. He’s stared down the devil himself, but somehow, he’s never been more nervous in his life than at this very moment. 

Cas keeps staring at him with that blank, warrior stare that’s become more rare in recent years, but never fully gone away; it’s always back when Cas is in battle. “Okay,” he says. 

“Uh, look, can I. . . can I come in?”

“I’ve got to be at work soon.”

“Then I’ll make it quick. Promise.” Cas still stares, expressionless. “Please.”

Cas sighs, then steps backwards, leaving just enough space for Dean to enter. He nods his thanks, hands clammy, and closes the door softly. 

Dean barely takes a moment to glance around Cas’s room before he comes out with it. “You look good. That’s good. See, Sam and I—well, I was worried.”

“You don’t need to worry about me.”

Dean resists huffing because that’s the opposite of true. Dean’s a worrier. He’s always worried about Sam, or Cas, or Jody and the girls, or everyone, really, but Cas especially, because—because Cas is an idiot and he just disappears into the wind at any given moment, No hi, hello, go to hell, just gone, off to heaven or hell or anywhere in between, places Dean can’t ever follow, fights Dean can never be backup on. Places where Cas gets his brain shish-kabobed, or strung up and cut open, or dead. 

Dean licks his lips. 

“Cas, I—” 

Why is this so hard? It shouldn’t be this hard. The words are there, bubbled in the back of his throat, waiting to be pushed out—but they’re stuck. He’s choking on them. Dean thinks he might die right there with those words in his throat. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry plays over and over in his mind; he needs to say it so the words quiet down. He pushes, one final heave.

What comes out is, “You’re my best friend. Other than Sam, no one’s been in my life longer than you. When shit hits the fan, I know I can count on you to have my back, because you’ve always had my back. Even when I don’t deserve it.”

Cas’s face is impassive, a stone wall Dean thought crumbled years ago. 

“I need you to hear me.” His voice cracks. “I hope it’s not too late. I—I should’ve stopped you. That night. I should’ve stopped you. I was wrong. You don’t make things wrong. You make a lot of things right. You’re my best friend, and I just let you go.”

He pauses, lungs constricted in his chest. His eyes flicker around the room; the room in his hostel, a thousand miles away from the bunker. 

“Please come home, Cas. I need you there.” 

Finally, there’s the slightest glimmer of emotion from Cas. His eyes flicker. He relaxes slightly, fingers twitching. Cas takes a step forward. Then another. He closes the space between them.

“Dean, come here.”

Cas’s arms are around Dean’s back, and Dean’s face finds the crook of Cas’s neck. Hot, salty tears race down his cheeks and his body shudders as the grief and anger gets expelled in waves. He feels like a child, gasping for breath. Cas is warm and sturdy and he’s there. Dean can smell the cheap shampoo and shaving cream, the ever-present scent of motels that is the same no matter where you go. Smells he’s never associated with Cas before. It’s alien. It’s human. 

“I’m sorry.” Dean’s voice cracks. “I’m sorry, Cas. I don’t know why I get so angry. I just know that it’s always been there and when things go wrong, it all comes out, and I can’t stop it no matter what. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry it took so long for me to say it.” 

Cas holds Dean and the world around them stills. It’s just them and nothing else.

This close, their chests pressed together, Dean can feel his heart beat against Cas’s. Solid and strong. He sniffles. 

It feels like an eternity later when Cas finally lets go. Dean doesn’t want him to let go. He wants to spend the rest of time curled up against Cas’s chest, until either he dies or Chuck kills them all. 

“I hear you,” Cas says, finally. The tension falls from Dean’s chest to his toes. If it weren’t for Cas’s hands on his arms, he would sink to the floor. “Dean, let’s go home.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wooo weee this is late D: 
> 
> Sorry everyone! With the world being in the dumper, I haven't had as much time to write. But the final chapter is here! Thanks everyone for reading, and of course lots of thanks to bunni for working with me throughout this little story. 
> 
> Enjoy <3

They come out of the hostel room an hour later. Sam’s been waiting for what feels like an eternity, and has managed to chew a scab into his lip. His mind has been conjuring nothing but worst case scenarios ever since Dean disappeared past the threshold of the door: what if they fight again? What if it gets violent? Worse, what if Cas puts his foot down, says  _ no _ , and breaks Dean’s heart? Dean will never recover, and Sam doesn’t know how he’d be able to handle Dean then. 

So he sits there for a long while, shaking his leg, and then Dean and Cas come out together, hands brushing by their sides as they walk up to the Impala. Cas is dressed in his work uniform, but Dean doesn’t seem anxious. In fact, Dean seems more content than Sam’s seen in months. Years, even. There’s a soft smile on Cas’s face. One of those rare, shy smiles that only Dean seems able to pull out from underneath the exterior of a creature made to be nothing more than a soldier. Sam’s heart is caught in his throat. He rolls down the passenger window when they get closer. Dean leans in, still smiling. 

“Cas is coming home.”

.

.

.

Hours later, when Cas’s meager possessions are packed into a duffel, and he’s said his goodbyes to his landlady (who looks at Dean and Sam suspiciously, but ultimately wishes Cas safe travels) they pack into their cars. Sam’s prepared for the lonely road home, ready to take off in the Mustang, when Cas comes to him.

“Something wrong?”

Cas gestures to the car. “May I ride with you?”

Sam blanches. It seemed obvious to him that Dean and Cas would ride together in the Impala. But as he looks, Dean’s already climbing into the driver’s seat, and in seconds, the engine’s roaring to life. He sighs. 

“You two didn’t get into another fight, did you?”

Cas shakes his head, a small smile on his face.”No. I told him I wanted to talk with you.”

So, Cas climbs into the passenger seat, and Sam sets the journey for home, trying to ignore the butterflies that dance in his stomach everytime he remembers they have that now: a home. And Cas is coming with them, where he belongs. Just this morning, Sam didn’t think they’d be here. Yet, here they are. The whiplash is strong, and he doesn’t think he’s adjusted yet. He has no idea how to start this conversation now. 

They drive in silence for the first stretch of the trip. Minutes and miles pass by in the blur of the road, turning into hours and state lines. The sky metamorphs from its bright, afternoon blue to the fiery orange of evening, and Cas still hasn’t said a word. By the time he has to pull over for gas, the sun has set and the stars are out. Cas cranes his neck at what has to be an uncomfortable angle to be able to look at them.

Sam finishes pumping gas and gets back into the car. The silence is heavy now, and his skin itches. 

“What do you see?” Sam asks.

Cas points. “Polaris. The North star.” 

Sam has to bend forwards to see where Cas’s finger points. The star stands stark against all the others, large and bright. Almost like a baby moon. 

“Humanity has used Polaris as their homing beacon for centuries,” Cas says. “Sailors are known to travel by stars, but even before man learned to master the sea, there were tribes mastering the sky.”

Sam sighs happily, some of the tension loosening out of his spine. He reaches over and pats Cas’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re coming home with us.”

He has a lot of questions. What happened behind that door? What changed? What did Dean say to you? How did Dean convince you, again, to leave everything behind?

He doesn’t ask any of these questions. Over the years, he’s observed and learned a lot about this empty space between Dean and Cas, their ‘profound bond.’ Sometimes Sam feels like a voyeur just being in the same room as them, doing something mundane like research, or the dishes. 

Sam starts the car and begins to drive. 

“Thank you for looking for me,” Cas says. 

Sam has to fight to keep his focus on the road. Cas is the most sincere being Sam’s ever known; he only ever says what he means, and it’s never duplicitous. 

“Of course. I do mean it; you  _ are _ family. Dean and I, we’d fight for you.”

Cas looks at his fingers and clenches them into a fist. “We used to say things like that, back in the Garrison. It wasn’t true, though. Not in the way you and Dean mean it. Back there, the mission was the only thing that mattered. And it mattered above all things. A fallen brother was just the price to pay for victory. And in Heaven, the price is always worth it.”

An uneasy silence falls between them.

Cas clears his throat. “When we first met, I’m afraid I envied you.”

Sam can’t hold back the surprised laugh. “What, really?” 

Cas nods. “Angels, we call one another brother, but we don’t mean it. Not like you and Dean do. Even if you and Dean weren’t blood-brothers, you two have a bond that transcends the cosmos. You two are bonded beyond what even Heaven can understand. When we met, I saw a man that called you brother and meant it. A man that would—and did—lay down his life for you.”

Cas pauses. Sam sees him swallow a lump in his throat. 

“You and Dean are the true example of brotherhood.”

“You’re part of that too, Cas,” Sam says. “Maybe we haven’t said it enough, and I’m really sorry for that, but you are family. You’re a Winchester.”

Cas smiles again, that easy smile. 

“So,” the question of the hour rests heavy on Sam’s tongue, “you and Dean? Are you two okay?”

Cas nods. “We’re okay. I think we’re better than we’ve been in a while, actually.” 

“Good. Because I don’t think I can play interference between you two anymore.”

“Nor should you. But really, Sam. Thank you. For everything.”

Sam has no idea how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. But the silence that falls between them now is comforting; the silence of the road trips of his childhood, where the trees and sky pass by in a colored blur. 

It’s a long drive home, but Sam doesn’t mind. Cas makes a better travel companion than Dean. He doesn’t crank up the radio and sing along, he doesn’t fart and roll up the windows, and he doesn’t chew his food obnoxiously. Sam can actually enjoy the drive, and it’s rare he gets this much uninterrupted time alone with Cas. He feels he should try and make conversation, but in the end, chooses not to. It’s wonderful just to be here and exist in the same space as Cas. It’s a great time. He watches the sky turn dark, then light again, then dark once more, like a painting right before his eyes. 

It’s a long drive back home, and when Sam finally pulls up into the bunker’s garage, he’s exhausted and sore. He’s too old to be pulling these kinds of all-nighters, but his desire to get home outweighed his willingness to stop at a motel, and besides, he thought they wasted enough time at each stop for gas and bathroom breaks. 

Sometime in the last few hours, Cas fell asleep against the door. Sam winces in empathy. He’s been in that same position enough to know Cas will wake with a giant kink in his neck. Sam shakes him gently, and Cas grunts as he wakes. His hand immediately reaches behind his neck and rubs at the sore point between his shoulder blades.

“We’re home,” Sam says. He knows Dean’s already here. The Impala was parked in its designated spot right outside the bunker door. Cas exits the car and stretches his legs. His back makes a popping sound, and Sam winces again. Teetering on the edge of mortal, Cas suffers the same everyday aches and pains as Sam and Dean; the ones that come with middle age.

“I wasn’t even driving,” Cas says, rubbing his eyes, “yet I’m exhausted.”

“It’s tiring,” Sam says between a yawn. His bed calls to him like a siren’s song. They enter the bunker from the garage door.

“Dean!” Sam calls. “We’re home.”

“In the kitchen!”

Sam and Cas follow the curved hallways to the kitchen at the very end. The aromas roll towards them, and Sam’s stomach grumbles. The entire drive, he ate only gas station coffee, jerky sticks, and a few energy bars. His cells crave something more nutritious, and he’s positive Cas’s do too. He hasn’t been eating like a king all these months. 

In the kitchen, Dean stands at the stove, stirring a pot. The table has a spread of dinner rolls, fresh butter, and beer. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”

Sam rubs at his eyes. “When did you get here?”

“About an hour ago. You know Sam, the faster you drive, the less time you spend on the road.”

Sam snorts. “And getting pulled over only costs you time.”

“Well then, don’t get caught speeding. It ain’t that hard. I’ve been driving the Impala since I was fourteen, and I’ve never gotten a speeding ticket.”

Sam doesn’t have the energy to argue with his brother about the safety implications of speeding. He sits at the table and pops open his beer. It’s cold. 

Dean spoons his soup into three bowls and hands two to Cas. Cas carries them to the table and slides one to Sam. Sam picks up the spoon and eagerly begins eating, not caring about the steam curling from the bowl. It’s a good sign that Dean is cooking again. All those months Cas was gone, he didn’t even turn the stove on once. 

Dean comes back with his own bowl and the three eat dinner. It’s a scenario Sam never imagined. Sometimes Cas would sit with them while Dean and Sam ate for the company, but most of the time he was in the library doing some sort of research, or he was teaching Jack about his angel powers. 

They talk about what they know of Chuck, which is a short conversation, because it’s not much. He hasn’t made any moves since they saved that town, but the three suspect he won’t stay quiet for long. They need to make a plan, not only to stop Chuck, but to avenge Jack. 

It’s like old times. The three of them against the world. It’s the way it should be.

They finish dinner, and Sam goes to take a shower. Under that spray, he relaxes for the first time in months, washing away the pain of that time. Sam stays there until the hot water runs out, and the cold water makes goosebumps raise on his skin.

Sam gets out, dries his hair, and wraps a towel around his waist. He walks barefoot towards his room, but pauses as he passes Cas’s. The door is closed. Sam knocks and waits. There’s no answer. He knocks again. “Cas?” Sam opens the door slowly. The room is empty, the bed still perfectly made; unchanged from the last six months. 

Sam turns his head and looks to Dean’s door. It’s cracked just slightly, and a TV light pools from underneath the threshold. Sam approaches that door and waits. He hears Dean’s voice, too low for the words to be made out. A moment later, there’s the distinct rumble of Cas’s voice. Sam stays there for a long minute, listening to the exchange of voices, even if he can’t decipher the words. Then he decides, once more, that those words are not meant for him to hear.

Sam goes to his room. He puts on his pajama pants.

Then, he climbs into bed, and he sleeps. 

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr!](https://castielsdisciple.tumblr.com/).


End file.
